


Journal 6

by otapocalypse



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 18 year old Dipper, Adult Dipper Pines, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Body Dysphoria, Demon Bill Cipher, Drugs, Dysphoria, Emetophobia, Gender Dysphoria, Human Bill Cipher, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Older Dipper Pines, Repressed Memories, Self-Harm, Trans Dipper Pines, this is going to be dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otapocalypse/pseuds/otapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dipper, having forgotten completely about Bill Cipher, can feel his sanity slipping away and begins to document his thoughts in hopes of finding the light.</p><p>This is going to be a dark and disturbing fic, folks, so read with caution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper starts his sixth journal

I have a theory.

If you are anything like me, you've surely heard stories of images, videos, that cause insanity when viewed. We all laugh it off, go looking for such legends, even. It's thrilling. 

But what if those stories were true? What if, each time you watch a scary movie with your friends, or view those Top 5 Creepy Paranormal Footage videos on the Internet, you lose it a little bit?

Hear me out.

I absolutely believe that there are things we as humans are not meant to see, things our minds are simply not equipped to deal with. Repression of traumatic events is an example of one defense mechanism we all have. 

We aren't meant to see death. Aren't meant to experience things like torture, watch someone commit suicide, or have to puzzle through whether something we just saw is real or not.

But things in this world get worse than that. Kidnapping, sex slavery, abuse and even rape and murder not only of innocent people, but innocent children.

What if our mind cannot deal with even representations of such things? That is my theory. Because of my own experiences with these things, and my own mental health, I'm going to start paying more attention to the connections they may have, and what those connections mean.

It started when I was a kid. Way before we were sent to my Uncle's house that fateful summer. It may seem strange now- considering the adventures you already know I've gone through- but as a child, I wanted to be a veterinarian.

That led me to read endless information on medical maladies of animals, to the point of obsession. This, of course, eventually led to a fascination with human illnesses, parasites in particular.

It was around this time that Mabel and I- more on her later- were first introduced to the internet. Our family was, suddenly, financially stable enough to afford a monthly subscription to the cheapest local service in town, and I struggled with the connection to watch creepy yet informational videos on the web.

And I was hooked. Fear of getting in trouble kept me away from the more graphic stuff- I still didn't have my own computer, and I didn't want my parents to walk in and catch a screen covered in bloody limbs and other disturbing imagery.

And so it was that I spent my free time this way until Gravity Falls, which served as my distraction in the summers of the next few years, while I would continue to watch increasingly edgy videos once I was sent back home.

It was around the time I turned seventeen that I began to feel as if my sanity was slipping. I would begin to see, hear, and feel things that were definitely not there, and that were unexplainable. A minor irritation would cause me to imagine murdering someone for hours after. And panic attacks, deep at night, for no reason, that sent me rocking and shaking and silently sobbing myself to sleep.

My dreams became vivid, confusing, intensely unsettling nightmares. Most of them included either harming myself or some small creature or child. Granted, a lot of it seemed accidental in the dreams, but it still made me lose sleep.

And here I am. 

I live alone in a small apartment. I'm working on completing online classes for a Biology degree. And I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to end up on the news sooner or later, for shooting up some event full of innocent people.

I have never been so afraid of my own mind. 

I have to figure this out. I have to know. And that's why I'm keeping this journal. There have been others; I've filled Great Uncle Ford's third and have gone on to complete two more, as well as correcting and updating a lot of valuable information, all pertaining to Gravity Falls.

But this is different. The threat isn't on the outside anymore, it's inside of me.

And I can't help feeling like there's something I'm missing.

Doing my shot takes my mind off things, even if it's only temporary. Peeling away the plastic, filling the syringe with that liquid elixir, plunging it deep into the muscle of my thigh, slowly pushing down, watching to make sure none of the concoction ekes out of the wound and puddles back onto my skin. 

That was what happened the first time I did it myself; the normally clear liquid had been tinted brown from my blood and what I imagine must have been puss. It freaked me out at the time, and I'd called Mabel, in tears, and had to let her talk me down from it. 

And then I had to plunge the needle back in again. 

Self-mutilation is a phase I only went through once, for about two years once puberty came in and destroyed everything I'd ever known. Nobody ever sees cuts you put on your chest, not even when they know. 

Even that has come back, and it terrifies me. Having someone walk in and find my lifeless, cold body in a pool of its own blood is right up there with becoming one of the pieces of shit that shoot up elementary schools. 

I've rambled on too much for this first entry. Now you know the whole of it, and you can reference back to these pages if you need. 

For now, it's already 4 a.m. I'm going to sleep. 

-Dipper


	2. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dip rambles about a particularly disturbing nightmare to him, and tries to figure out what could have caused it
> 
> If you're sympathetic towards animals, I would skim or even skip this chapter

I had another nightmare.

I was at my old middle school, standing on the hill above the playground with my mother, father, and Mabel standing around me. Mom and dad were carrying on a conversation about god knows what, not really paying attention. Mabel is a few feet away, goofing off.

I hear barking, and turn my head to see two dogs coming up the hill, snarling like hellhounds. One is bigger than the other, and mottled, maybe a greyhound or pitfall. The other is smaller, white and ginger, maybe a jack russel. 

They only rush us, then jump away, still barking and snarling. Mabel laughs it off, trying to get the bigger one’s attention and call it over so that she can pet it, I guess. It bothers me, and I try to get our parents’ attention, but it’s like nothing even happened. I give up as the dogs rush us again, coming closer this time.

I try to ignore it, like they do, and warn Mabel not to get too close. I feel sharp claws on my leg; the smaller dog, yipping up at me as it jumps on my leg. I step back, suddenly realizing we are all standing on a concrete staircase. I have to go on to the next step to get away from the dog.

The two of them charge again, the bigger, darker one at Mabel, the smaller one at me. Again, they peel away at the last second, but the scratches on my leg hurt, and I don’t want them to get too agitated. I beg my parents to leave, but they only wave me off and continue talking. I can’t hear or understand what it is they’re saying.

The smaller dog is at my leg again, and I nudge it away with my foot, gently, trying not to provoke it, but it comes back. Irritated, I nudge harder- and the dog flips backwards, landing on the next step on its back and remaining still for a moment.

Before it starts twitching.

I look on in horror and guilt as it begins seizing, then blood begins to seep into the concrete around it, coming from its back. It is at this moment I wake up in my pitch-black, one room apartment, heart pounding and tears in my eyes.

I killed it. I didn’t mean to.

I don’t what this means. Nothing I watched the day before had anything to do with dogs, or any animals at that… did it? Fuck. I don’t know.

I flip the light on and sit up in my bed, leaning up against the wall as I repeatedly tell myself that it was just a dream; Mabel is safe, I didn’t murder an innocent dog, everything is fine. It doesn’t work for a long while.

I look at the clock; 6:15 A.M. Sighing, I decide write about it. 

It was graphic, it disturbed me, what else can I say? I love animals, I always have; just because I didn’t bring home a pet pig from the fair doesn’t mean I don’t. I just don’t show it as much, I’m not as vocal about it as Mabel. Sure, it may be repressed aggression or something like that, but why not against a person?  
I’ve had plenty of dreams where I’d had to take care of something small and helpless, a child or a newborn kitten or something, and failed miserably, either losing, hurting, or accidentally killing the subject and having the resulting adrenaline rush rip me back to reality, where I would wake up crying, even sobbing or screaming sometimes.

I’ve also had several dreams about fighting people, whether it was to defend someone else or myself, and always remembered having fun in those dreams. Unless I couldn’t move fast enough. Then it was horror. 

It would make so much more sense if this had been one of those dreams; why was it so goddamn graphic-

Wait. 

I’m calming down now, and I’m remembering a few things that may have caused this. I don’t know if I have the strength to write about them… but fuck it, I have to.

I remember, when I was a very young child, mom and Mabel were out one day, doing what, I can’t remember. We’d lived in a very old, rural house at the time, and wildlife ran amok; garter snakes, foxes, deer, wildcats, you name it.

My father had captured one of the snakes once; seemingly thrilled, he showed it to me, before grinning and proceeding to nail it, still very much alive and wriggling, to a wooden board. Each strike of the hammer came, and I didn’t flinch. God, why didn’t I flinch?

When he was done, the snake was still trying desperately to get away, squirming in place, the rusty, crooked nail sticking up from just behind its head. If there was any blood, I don’t remember seeing it. We both stood there, watching it for a long time, before dad nudged me and said to leave it alone. 

Two hours later, the board, and the snake, were gone.

The second instance was several years later, but still before Gravity Falls. We’d moved from the old house to an apartment complex, where I met several kids my age. We would run around the place, exploring and doing dumb shit like taking running leaps off of walls and roofs to see who could jump from the highest point without chickening out or getting hurt. 

It was springtime one of the years there, and again Mabel wasn’t around. We’d found some newborn birds who had been abandoned by their mother and kicked out of the next to land, naked, blind, and squeaking, in the dirt below. They were going to die anyway.

One of the kids said “Watch this,” and before anyone else could react, they chucked it at a brick wall.

The others, after a moment of silence, whooped and joined in.

And so did I.

It took several throws for each bird before their stomachs burst, large, bloody bubbles or organs leaking out. Mine was still conscious and chirping endlessly now as it bled in my hands, and when the other kids got bored and dropped their birds in the bushes, I followed suit.

I felt horrible about it afterwards and didn’t discuss it for years, and the kid who’d started it all couldn’t recall the day when asked about it years later.

The most recent instance was a few days ago, when I was researching two teenage boys, just a bit younger than me, who had gone on a killing spree and posting several images and videos online. One of those images was a selfie taken with a black and white dog, hung from a tree, a lifeless grimace on its bloody face while one of the boys stuck his tongue out towards its neck.

…I don’t like thinking about all of this. It makes me sick.

I’m going to try to get more sleep.

-Dipper


End file.
